Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.
They only babble who practise not reflection
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.